And these boys, they have their stories
and they paint them on their foreheads
to try to show us that they're growing
when they're really only throwing off their clothes.
These girls, they have their memories
and they tie them to their ankles
so not matter how they grieve him,
they can never really leave him like they chose.
Momma, will I be just as scattered
as the life you drew before me
will the salt congeal in this wound?
will my healing always feel this far away?
Father, help me understand why
I choke on our own anger
feel it burning underneath me
feel it fighting just to keep me in my grave.
Can my hands become my own hands?
can this skin become my own skin?
if I can conquer what's in my chest,
maybe I can be the best that I can be.
Is my best enough to be, though?
something pleasant, something changing
I am frightened to be happy,
words that terrify and trap me in a plea:
A call for help is all I ask for
a simple reason to keep living
maybe meaning can be found here
if I ever come around here in the light.